"You always have to work," she whispers, her gaze cast down.
He looks away, then reaches behind him and presents a glossy pink, black and white bag bearing a store logo. Victoria's Secret, it reads. "Here you go."
When she doesn't reach for it, he pulls a doll out of the bag. "Look. Isn't it pretty?"
It's a girl doll with blank eyes. Her dress is pink and frilly, and there is a slight scuff mark on her right cheek.
"She's hurt," the father says. "Nobody wanted her, but I thought you would want to be her friend."
She takes the gift. Her father can't buy her anything new and nice, she knows that. He's doing the best he can.
They are poor. That will not change no matter what. This is not about her being a girl.
Apparently interpreting her acceptance as forgiveness, he sits next to her on the bed and puts an arm around her skinny shoulders.
"I'm so sorry, sweetheart. Daddy has to work or we can't eat."
"I know."
Her mother has two jobs. The kids in her school call her poor even though most of them get free lunches just like her anyway.
"I have to leave before dinner," he says.
"Work again?"
He gives her a tired smile. "Yeah. But I'll be back soon."
She nods. He's always away. He says the money is better if he travels.
She wishes he didn't have to travel so much. But he said if he didn't, then her mother might need to take on another job.
Her mother is always so tired. The girl doesn't want her mother to work more.
Later that day, the girl clenches her hand around a few old and worn bills and coins. They're sweaty from her palm.
Six dollars and fifty-six cents is all the money she's saved from her allowance. When she gets an allowance.
Swallowing hard, she places everything on the scarred dining room table where her mother puts down two plates of PB and J sandwiches. Both have crusts since they can't afford to waste even a crumb.
"What's this?" the mother asks.
"Can you buy me some lottery tickets?"
The mother stares at her. "What for?"
"To win money. I heard Brian talk about it in school."
Brian is a jerk who loves to talk in a stuffy-nosed voice she hates, but he knows a lot of things she doesn't. He said his dad was going to buy ten tickets. When his friends asked why he wasn't buying any, he looked at them like they were morons. "Kids can't buy lottery tickets."
Three hundred million dollars in the jackpot. She can't count that high, but she knows it's a lot of money. Enough to make her family really rich-millionaires, according to Brian.
Millionaires don't have to work so much. Millionaire dads can stay home and not miss birthdays and school plays and Christmases. And millionaire families don't have to eat PB and J all the time.
If her family just had more money, they'd be all right.
Chapter Seven
Ava
I'm dead tired by the time I reach the small apartment I share with Bennie. Private jet or not, I didn't get much sleep on the flight. I was too tense and too aware of Lucas.
I reminded myself over and over about how he used me, but it wasn't enough. My entire body was prickling like it was being enveloped in heat after being out in particularly grueling cold weather. Much to my mortification, the flesh between my legs throbbed as I remembered the decadent, insatiable things he used to do to me.
I press the spot between my eyebrows and breathe out. I'm just tired. That's the only reason I'm letting myself feel anything other than disdain for Lucas.
I forcibly evict all thoughts of Lucas and concentrate on the present. Our apartment is a 2LDK-two bedrooms plus a larger area that serves as a "living-dining-kitchen". Not that it's really large; the place is tiny by American standards, actually smaller than some of the shared dorm suites in college. But space is at a premium in Japan, especially in a big city like Osaka.
I step into the entryway, take off my shoes and call out, "Tadaima."
It loosely means "I'm home" in Japanese. Since it's local custom to say it every time you come home, I've started saying it too.
There's no responding "okaeri", so Bennie's probably either asleep or out. He often sleeps in on the weekends, and on the rare occasions he gets up early, he goes out. He says hanging around the apartment feels like being stuck in a hamster cage."
I go to my room. Unlike Bennie's, mine doesn't have tatami-mat flooring. There's a kind of synthetic, slightly cushy wood-like material instead. It's actually pretty easy on the feet. There's no bed in the room, just a low table with a seat cushion underneath. A small closet with sliding paper doors has my clothes and the futon set I pull out every night. I set down my suitcase, unroll the futon and pass out on top of the blanket.